The other night, I found myself lying uncomfortably between the very comfortable forms of our Chihuahua and our kitten. Apropos of absolutely nothing, I thought of needles and Follistim and 8:30PM appointments with alcohol wipes. And, honestly, I felt a little nostalgic for them.
The obvious argument, of course, is that I miss having hope, blah blah
blah, but the other argument is that it was nice to be good at
something. I liked the routine of laying out a paper towel and
spreading supplies across it: two wipes, a syringe, the second needle
for the syringe, all while the vial warmed. The last became a matter of
habit rather than benefit, since, late in the process, Heather's
muscles were so tight from the nightly injections that even warmed oil
And maybe part of what I miss is the team spirit-collaborating with
Heather on a mutual goal. Everything else was total fucking chaos, but
the shots we could do. Occasionally Heather was pissed if she bled;
next to nurse phone tag, that meant nothing.
What has surprised me, though, is that we've felt so connected since
finding out about her miscarriage. That first week was such a haze of
grief, with no way to talk to friends or family about the hopelessness
and loss we felt, that we clung together. I don't know that I have ever
felt closer to her.
Yesterday we celebrated our four-year anniversary. The flower-delivery
guy brought arrangements to both of us at work, and in a couple weeks
we're going on our third-annual trip to a cabin in Mississippi-a place
known to welcome committed lesbian couples. I don't know if it's the
kitten or what (FYI, she is so fucking cute, it's ridiculous) but we're
very content. It isn't as if the baby thing has disappeared, or that
the miscarriage doesn't back up on us sometimes, but neither hope nor
grief is at the center of our life together.